


Against the cold

by WeUsedToKnock



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeUsedToKnock/pseuds/WeUsedToKnock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's winter and there's trouble on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old one, written for friends as an exercise in writing. (To see if I could. )  
> And written so whoever read it could insert whichever musketeer they wanted.

* * *

There is a lone rider out on the road in the snow. It is cold, and he is tired. The horse walks slowly, picking its way through the concealed holes and ruts. It is harnessed for carriage-work, not riding. Everything is muffled and it is an easy task for his assailants to pull the rider from his mount and slit his throat. The blood is shockingly bright - scarlet against the snow and the mud and the muted colours of winter. He has nothing of great value - a handful of coins and a gun. They take the horse and depart, leaving his body on the ground - warmth leaching from it until the snow no longer melts in his blood and a white shroud falls and drifts over him.

There is a lone rider out on the road in the snow. It is cold, and he is tired. He should have reached his destination hours ago, but there was trouble on the road. His knuckles beneath his gloves are grazed, and if you looked closely enough you would see scrapes on his face and observe a certain stiffness to his posture that points to bruised ribs beneath his cloak. He wears a blue sash at his waist - or perhaps a scarf with a hat pulled low over his face; or a bandana beneath his broad brimmed hat; or perhaps no hat at all, but a hooded cloak shielding his face from the cold. Whatever he wears, he is a lone rider - tired, cold and a long way from home.

The Lady is curled into a corner of the carriage. And she is a Lady - you can tell from the quality of her clothes. No homespun cloth here, but silks and crewel-worked satin beneath a fur-lined cloak. Well made shoes and fine stockings. Travelling blankets of the finest, softest wool that despite their quality cannot keep out the pervading chill that seeps insidiously into her bones. She has been here for long enough that her irritation at the inconvenience of a broken axel has turned to trepidation at her predicament. The driver took the horse and went for help hours ago. She is dressed for travel, but not by foot, and she can only wait, wrapped in her blankets and furs, and hope that help arrives soon.

The rider hears muffled shouts and a scream nearby. The horse flicks its ears and he kicks it forward - curiosity and adrenaline banishing his fatigue. He is aware that his horse is favouring its near foreleg and dare not push too hard. He rounds a bend and sees the small group surrounding the carriage - hears another scream and grunted curses and shouts. The rider draws his gun and calls a warning - unheeded by the group. He is armed to the teeth, and soon all but one are dead from his shots (his aim is uncannily accurate) or from knives thrown from horseback and buried to the hilt in flesh (with deadly precision), or from the slash and stab of his sword (despatching his opponents with minimal effort). The sole survivor runs into the woods in the gathering dusk, leaving his companions gurgling and gasping their last breaths on the ground behind him. Silence returns.

The rider dismounts, retrieving his knives and wiping them clean on the clothes of their victims. A prayer murmured automatically over their bodies as he kicks them over to look for clues. They are common thieves and bandits - ragged and desperate, purses weighed down by little more than the weight of the leather they are made from: no political plots or ulterior motives here. Blood is sprayed in an arc across the snow, and mixed into the mud and slush that has been churned underfoot in the fight. He turns his attention to the carriage - stepping lightly through the carnage underfoot, unperturbed by the iron tang of blood in the air. This is the currency he deals in - an irrefutable part of his life.

The carriage is silent as he approaches. The contrast of the shadows inside against the snow outside makes it impossible to discern any detail of the interior. But there had been a scream - he knows that much.

The Lady is pressed into in the corner, one gloved hand holding her rosary, the other clutching a small dagger as she whispers her prayers. She is not naive enough to travel entirely unprotected, as the thief who entered the carriage discovered - retreating from the blade slashing across his face to confront the more pressing danger from the rider. Her breath is fast and shallow - hanging in the cold air. She wonders if she has been rescued from danger, or merely faces a more heavily armed opponent.

The light through the door is blocked out by a figure who looks cautiously inside. His face is in shadow and his cloak gives no clues to his identity. He introduces himself as a musketeer - may he be of assistance? She is reluctant to entrust herself to a stranger, and musketeers come with their own reputation. But her only other choice appears to be to wait here and slowly freeze to death. He extends his hand and escorts her from the carriage. There may be a slight twinkle in his eye as he helps her onto his horse, but he is entirely polite and courteous. His horse is slightly lame, he explains, he will walk alongside to spare it as long as possible - they will probably meet her driver as he returns, and if not there will be shelter elsewhere.

His air of confidence belies his unvoiced concern as they travel onwards. By his reckoning they are still a good five miles from the Inn where he is overdue for his rendezvous. The temperature is falling fast, and a breeze is starting to whip up the fallen snow, whilst more falls steadily from the sky. They have a moor to cross and he can barely feel his fingers or feet any more, while his companion is white with cold and shivering uncontrollably. His brothers will look for him, but there is no comfort in that if he leaves them nothing to find but frozen corpses. He casts his mind back, thinking - he passed this way on the ride out - where could they seek shelter?

There is a musketeer leading a horse and rider across the moor. Colour has faded from the world with the setting of the sun, and all is shades of grey in the dusk. They have left the road and slip and slide as they plough onwards. Winter is not yet set in so far as to freeze the moor underfoot and the going is heavy. He steps on tufts of sedge and grass where he can. The rider sways in the saddle, clinging to the pommel. All are tired and cold to their bones - their breath hangs white in the air. They will not survive the night without shelter and warmth.

The musketeer can do nothing for his horse but tether it against the shelter of the shepherd's hut. For himself and the Lady there is refuge inside. He has been initially impressed and then increasingly concerned by his companion's lack of complaint. She has neither moved or spoken since sinking to the floor of the hut. His fingers are numb as he strikes his steel and flint - finally catching a spark in the tinder and blowing the small glow into a flame which he transfers to the old stove - tending it until the fire burns steadily. The Lady is still sitting on the floor, cloak and blankets wrapped round her - trapping the cold air against her and getting no benefit from the heat of the stove. She doesn't respond to his query and he sighs, then slowly, carefully starts to remove her outer layers. Who knew that the hands that had earlier dealt death with no compunction could be so light in their touch. He warms her cloak by the stove then wraps it back around her before carrying melted snow out to his horse - it has pawed at the ground to uncover what grass is available, winter coat fluffed out against the cold.

They should share the cot, he suggests, to keep warm. Though from his manner he will not hesitate to spend the night on the floor if she objects.

It is cold and dark. There is a glow from the fire - banked up to last through the night. They are huddled together on the small cot. At some point they have turned to face each other. He wakes at the sensation of her hand pressed against his chest, of fingers running through his hair. In the dim light he can see her eyes are still closed as she presses her lips to his. He hesitates, does not want to take advantage - but it would be impolite to refuse such a tempting invitation. A sleepy sigh escapes her as he returns the kiss, then a moan of pleasure as his hands follow the outline of her body - mapping the curves and contours. Lips, tongues and hands exploring each other's bodies in a haze of sleep and desire. She is barely conscious, aware of little but the sensations that their mutual explorations provoke, and of the ache and hunger building inside her. Oh, but he is good - and careful not to fully wake her: she may have initiated this encounter but he is unsure how aware she is of her actions or his identity. But the Lady is no innocent. Aware or not, her subconscious knows exactly what she is doing as her kisses become more demanding and she moves against him in a rhythm as old as time. She clings to him as he holds her safely in his arms - their hearts pounding as they settle back against each other. But she is still more asleep than awake.

When her eyes open in the cold morning light she is alone and confused. She had dreamed of warmth and comfort, and of indescribable pleasure. Had she dreamed? The clothes she wears are undisturbed (the rest are draped near the stove to warm them) and she is covered by her cloak and blankets. She sits up as the door opens. He is fully dressed against the cold of the morning, stamping snow off his boots. Entirely polite and courteous in his attitude. There is nothing to suggest they shared anything but warmth in the narrow bed. She is bemused, but mirrors his manner to avoid any embarrassment. 

There are three riders on the road, their clothes are mismatched but they all wear the same cloaks and the pauldrons that mark them out as musketeers. It is cold, but clear - snow sparkling and thawing slightly in the morning sun. They are concerned for their brother who failed to arrive the previous day and have set off to locate him. Their hearts are heavy with dread as they discover a body at the side of the road - frozen in a drift of blood-stained snow. It is not him. Giddy with relief, they ride on - sharing tales of narrow escapes and past escapades.

They meet on the road - his brothers relieved to find him safe, if surprised to find him on foot with a mounted companion. They escort her back to the inn where she assures them she will be able to arrange the retrieval of her possessions (if they are still there) and her onward journey.

As the musketeers leave, she thanks him again for his help - it is more than likely that she would have died without him, one way or another. He bows low, brushing his lips against her fingers as they curl automatically around his hand. Her eyes widen with a jolt of recognition and remembrance of his touch - the feel of his lips and beard, of his breath warm against her skin. It was entirely his pleasure, he replies. She catches her breath and feels a rush of heat inside, then blushes deeply. He smiles slightly in acknowledgement as their eyes meet - they understand each other completely. And then he departs with his brothers.

There are four riders on the road. It is cold (despite the sun). One of them is tired, and his horse is slightly lame, but they are reunited and heading for home.

Her daughter is born nine months later; her husband of eight months worries that the baby is early but does not think to question if it is his. The child is cherished by her mother - she has her father's eyes and embodies memories of a night that will comfort her mother throughout her safe but dull marriage. She will never go to Paris, will never see him again, but she has her memories and their daughter. If she has any regret it is only that her memories of that night do not go beyond an impression of sensations - there is no detail behind it. But her body remembers and she wakes sometimes in the night, reaching for a man who is not there.

The musketeer thinks of her sometimes, especially when he is riding by himself in a snowy landscape. He wonders what became of her, and hopes that life has treated her kindly; and then he forgets her again.


End file.
